Then it happened!

The torn edge of the muleta caught in the end of one of the banderillas, and Pablo, because he wasn't looking, didn't know-until the force of the animal's charge jerked it and the sword from his hand. He was defenseless. The crowd screamed.

In turning to run-not in fear, but to fetch another cape-the Colombiano tripped and fell. He lay still, his arms over his head, and at once the bull was upon him. Not for long though-for the peones with their capes soon had the beast attracted away-but long enough to be injured; and unconscious, Pablo was carried out.

"Surely Jose will allow the substitute to finish off the bull," thought Carlos. But no, already the pale-green-clad figure had stepped into the ring and was attracting the bull. No dedication. Just a simple matter of killing.

But Jose was not prepared to act too quickly. Surely a little more glory was in order first. And Carlos knew that his friend wanted him to share in that glory, because the torero was skillfully manoeuvring the bull from the far side of the ring to the area right under the presidencia. Three times he led the animal back and forth in a brilliant series of passes, and after the last and most spectacular of all, with Toro hypnotized in furious frozen bafflement, Jose Maria leaned out and ran the sharp tip of his espada gently down el toro's head to his nose; then turned, and with the sword raised in triumphant salute, sauntered in slow, stately steps straight towards Carlos.

The crowd was on its feet in a roar of "Ole-ole-ole," almost drowning the frenetic paean from the band.

Perhaps it was this excessive noise that caused it no one will ever knowbut the bull seemed to waken from his zombie state. His head slowly rose, and he started forward.

The mob shrieked, but the change in their tone didn't reach Jose. He continued forward, his gaze on Carlos' box, while the bull's charge gathered rapid

momentum.

"Joselito!" screamed Carlos.

Too late. The horn caught Jose Maria and tossed him in the air, sending him with a thud against the wooden wall of the callejon. It was this that saved him from being gored; and at once the peones had lured the beast off.

Carlos saw Jose totter to his feet, his jacket rent, but there was no blood. The matador dusted himself off, took a proffered glass of water, then without a pause, selected another sword, and stepped shakily out to face his would-be killer.

The bull was in a frenzy, and straightway charged. He thundered by Jose's feeble pass, wheeled at once, and charged again. Jose, however, was too slow this time to skip aside from the deadly hook of the long, sharp horn, and Carlos stood in mute horror as he watched his torero friend impaled on that horn, and helplessly tossed to and fro at the brute's will. Jose was unable to help himself, only to clutch at that deadly spike, until at last the bull dropped his head, and the matador slid to the sand.

Carlos hurried to the infirmary. Nobody knew him, but in the general melee, he managed to get in and go to the side of the bed.

"Joselito," he whispered.

But Jose Maria, a faint smile on his lips, was already dead.

As Carlos looked down at his love, his eyes welled with tears. "Somehow . . ." he murmured, "somehow or other . . . he did it for me."

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